


borealis

by frostmantle



Series: sagaciously salacious [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff Ahoy, Garlean Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gift Fic, also hey look a late starlight fic, anyway the clothes stay on but it's definitely not T rated, cw referenced self harm, eventual smut because this is just who i am as a person, heck with it #4 is a valentione's day prompt now, in case y'all were unaware i am a clown with a toy ship, is this what the kids call frotting, prompt response collection, slow burn lmfao more like a couple of extremely dumb turbo nerds standing around on fire, yep there it is there's the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostmantle/pseuds/frostmantle
Summary: Kiss prompt: One ship, ten kisses shared.updated 2/14/21 - Prompt #4. Happy Valentione's Day!
Relationships: Nero tol Scaeva/Warrior of Light
Series: sagaciously salacious [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1392652
Comments: 45
Kudos: 60





	1. cheek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illegible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/gifts).



> Prompt: One ship, ten kisses shared.  
> -cheek  
> -forehead  
> -crown of the head  
> -nose  
> -eyelids  
> -lips  
> -neck  
> -thigh  
> -hand  
> -foot
> 
> Bonuses if:  
> -One kiss type per scene, ten scenes total.  
> -Half initiated by one partner, half by the other.

**I. cheek**

  
"Seven hells, it's _cold_ -"

Four words she had never thought would possibly escape her lips, in the five years and change since she'd left Garlemald, and yet here she was. A sharp, brisk gust of chilly air blew through the crack in the front door before Aurelia Laskaris managed to pull it shut.

One of Coerthas' winter storms had blown off its expected course and produced snow- real snow, too, not the cold rain that had normally wrapped up the year's end ever since the Calamity. Heavy flurries of white now fell in placid sheets upon the denizens of the Lavender Beds, blanketing the adventurers' enclave in winter stillness, and Aurelia found herself quite grateful that she'd not yet managed to set aside the time to reseed her gardens after returning to the Source. Already on her way down the road to get the post she'd heard several of her neighbors grousing about their ruined crops.

She slipped her feet into her soft house shoes and padded into the kitchen, snapping on a nearby light and making a beeline for the automated kettle next to the range. After a moment the rich scent of roasted coffee wafted into the air.

Once she had helped herself to a mug full of the brew Aurelia ambled into her sitting room to admire the fruits of her labors. Holly garlands draped the windows and the rafters, adorned with the same red and gold organza ribbons as the large Coerthan spruce in the corner. All were strewn with lights that cast a soft glow over each leaf and translucent curl. She had fashioned a simple wreath to hang in the kitchen where the cookfire burned low to keep the night's meal warm for gradual consumption, and it sat in its place above the mahogany dish rack. Beneath the low lights and the fresh smell of evergreen and apples and cinnamon, her orchestrion trundled quietly through a selected collection of songs.

As she gazed at the tree the tilt of her smile took on a pensive cast. The greenhouse at the Laskaris villa - her de facto domain - had been wholly subject to her uncle and his austere aesthetic sensibilities. Every leaf and branch had had to be bound and trimmed and neatly in place. In the seven years she had lived there, not a single ilm of the family property had been allowed to have Aurelia's touch upon it. Not even the room in which she'd stayed when out of school on term breaks.

The little forest cottage wouldn't be seen as much in the way of wealth, not back in Garlemald. To the eyes of her aunt and uncle, or anyone else in her family for that matter, it would be positively rustic if not outright primitive. It didn't have a magitek greenhouse or a central heating system, and precious few technological amenities. But nearly every piece of furniture in it had been fashioned by her own hand. Including the decorations she now admired. 

This was _her_ place. That was what mattered.

"You look in a fine mood," a voice drifted upwards from the cushions of the sectional. Aurelia grinned and set the mug down upon the low-slung table. 

"I was just thinking about how much I enjoy having my own house."

"Must say I rather enjoy you having a house myself, all things considered." She felt a slight nudge against her side, followed by a faint clatter. Nero was sitting up, the tomestone in his hand having joined her coffee mug on the side table. "...It looks good, by the by."

"What does- oh. The tree? You wouldn't believe the ridiculous lengths I had to go to in order to get that here."

"Having involved myself in your adventures on multiple occasions, I _assume_ shenanigans of some sort must necessarily be involved unless otherwise stated. You've something of a knack for finding trouble."

"Trouble which _you_ have instigated on more than one occasion." 

"As I said," that grin was all teeth, "you've a knack for finding trouble. And speaking of finding things, I'll be back in a moment." 

Aurelia watched him amble through the stairwell entrance and turn the corner past the orchestrion to make his descent. She noted (with some considerable amount of personal amusement) that for all her grousing about the former tribunus' presence at the combined Ironworks-Scions Starlight party Tataru had also made _Nero_ a natty holiday jumper - and she'd even knitted it using yarn she had dyed in his favorite color. All the more surprising, although he had not said a word about the gathering since, was the fact he was actually wearing it.

Her smile returned as she retrieved her mug.

The coffee was half gone by the time he returned, this time bearing a rather bulky unwrapped box in his hands. He shifted it from his shoulder to his hands with a soft grunt that indicated it was every ilm as heavy as it appeared. "I was going to give this to you later," he explained, setting it down in front of her feet, "but as usual I've no idea when either of us might be off again."

"A gift?" Still smiling, Aurelia set the mug aside. "Since when do _you_ celebrate Eorzean holidays?"

" 'When in Allag', and all that. And Mistress Tataru, despite her threats, did leave the pins out of the undertunic she gave me." A brief smirk tilted his mouth. "I do believe your little secretary likes me more than she lets on."

"Or she's resigned herself to your presence. For Cid's sake, you know." 

"You jest, but this is actually a joint gift from myself and Garlond. As you know, he's had to return to Othard. Thus, I am the one tasked with presenting it." At her hesitation, he urged, "Go on, open it."

With some effort she lifted the box into her lap. It was a standard-issue imperial transport container made of reinforced black steel, and the base was cold enough that it radiated a chill even through her breeches; she winced when its weight settled into her thighs. Carefully she unfastened the latches and lifted the lid-

-and her eyes went wide at its contents. "...This is-"

"A portable refrigerated centrifuge."

"Where in the seven hells did you find one of these? I haven't set hand to a personal centrifuge in _years_. The medical laboratory at Castrum Novum just used those massive consoles that they'd built to set-"

"Into the wall mounts in the old R&D sectors, yes. At any rate, I plucked the original from one of the research bays- not that it was functional when I found it, mind, but there are schematics in the archives for just about anything one can imagine."

"Surely it wasn't necessary to go to all that trouble."

"That is where you would be wrong," he said dryly, lifting the centrifuge from its storage with considerable effort. The angle was somewhat awkward, and it wobbled for a moment before Aurelia was able to brace her hands and take it from him. He fastened the latches and reached over the arm of the sofa to set the container out of the way. "There were several specific components I required for the modified buildout which, one can safely say, cannot be sourced via other means."

"Precisely how much did you modify it?" Aurelia tilted the heavy tool this way and that, watching the lights from the tree shimmer over its smoothly brushed surface. "...I'm not about to find an operable magitek laser turret tucked into the rotor or something equally daft, am I?"

He squinted at her but chose to ignore the remark. "Aside from a minor tweak for improved performance, as it happens there was only one major modification to the original build. For practicality's sake."

"Only one?"

"Only one. Why?"

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise.

"That sort of self-restraint isn't like you at all. Are you certain you're well?"

"Trying to be funny again, I see." He cast his eyes to the heavens. "I shall have you know it was _his_ idea."

"Oh? That's a surprise."

"The auxiliary power source normally would need to be connected to a ceruleum generator for a charge, but this design utilizes aetheric energy harnessed from a corrupted crystal. Some wild hair of Garlond's cobbled together on a previous project with some degree of success, if the sales are any indication." His smile faded, lips pursed as if he'd bitten into some particularly sour piece of fruit. "...Given it sprouted from one of those half-baked experiments of his, I suppose it functions _reasonably_ well."

He sounded rather surly - rankling, perhaps, at his own acknowledgment that he had needed Cid's assistance in order to complete the gift. When she wrenched her focus away from her silent admiration of the customized chassis (which was, of course, a deep wine red), his brows were knit together in a faint scowl that indexed that line nigh to the lower curve of his third eye.

Aurelia leaned over and gently brushed her lips against his cheek. It was warm and smooth, devoid of its customary evening shadow; she realized he must have taken a razor to his jaw earlier in the day. The earthy scent of sandalwood shaving soap lingered in her nose for a moment before she righted herself. 

"If you frown like that every time you have to swallow your pride to ask for his help," she warned, poking his broad nose with one gentle fingertip, "you'll give yourself wrinkles."

"You mean _more_ wrinkles," he groused. "In case you've not noticed, I'm not getting any younger."

"Yes, nigh on thirty-seven* winters now," Aurelia said with a perfectly straight face, though the mischievous twinkle that lit her dark blue eyes was impossible to miss. "Well past one's prime, in my professional opinion. Ancient. _Antediluvian_."

"Utterly decrepit," he sighed. The scowl had smoothed from his brow, and she knew by the lazy and unguarded drawl which now laced his words that he was no longer annoyed. "I'll be naught but dust by the time I'm forty."

"Doubtless. You could practically pass for an Allagan relic now- that is, if you weren't more easily mistaken for a bloody _dhalmel._ "

Nero laughed aloud at last, the fine lines winging out from the corners of his eyes crinkling with his mirth, and wrapped his arms around her smaller frame - centrifuge and all. "Flattery will get you everywhere, hero," he said. "Come here."

She seated herself atop his thighs as if he were one of her reading cushions and relinquished her prize, shaking out the pins and needles in her arms as he set it next to the table, then returned to his full-body lounge. His woolen-clad arms lay draped over her forearms in a loose, casual sort of way, something almost but not quite an embrace.

Aurelia considered extricating herself to get more coffee, but the combined assault of the fireplace's crackle with the cable knit of Tataru's scarlet jumper seemed to beckon her into a warm and happy torpor, and the notion of leaving it aside even for a few moments seemed far too much effort so she pillowed her cheek against his broad chest. He was all angles and lean muscle but comfortable enough regardless.  
  
"Seriously though," she said, "I mean it. Please be at least _somewhat_ mindful of your safety in future. That was a great deal of risk just for a blueprint and some parts." 

"Come now, it wasn't _that_ much trouble." His light tenor was only barely louder than the strong thump of the heartbeat she could hear with one ear just beneath his collarbone. "I all but strolled through the gates, and Garlond sent the very appropriately named Biggs along with me. Safe as houses."

Aurelia raised a skeptical brow - she had no doubt that more must have happened than he was letting on - but said only: "You're going to have to tell me all about it after I've set this up in my workspace."

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "I had... rather hoped I could be there when you do. So I can show you what changes were made, mind."

Even as the words left his mouth she watched the tips of Nero's ears turn pink, the same shade as the flush along his nose and cheekbones - neither of which could be attributed to the warmth of the room. She found it terribly cute but wasn't about to embarrass him further by saying so. "I'd like that very much," she beamed. "But it's rather late tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"I-" A hesitation, then a half-tilted smile. "...Tomorrow it is."

She pushed at the heavy chassis beneath the table with one stocking-clad toe and leaned comfortably into his side with a yawn. The last two days had been rather eventful but the sofa cushions were plush and cozy, the room was warm and quiet and dimly lit, and she was in the company of a close friend in a house she'd chosen for herself, drinking coffee and watching the snow fall in silent sheets through the windows. 

For the moment at least, she was content. It was a good state of mind.

"Had I known you'd be _this_ pleased I'd have prevailed upon Garlond much sooner," came the low, teasing rumble from the man whose cheek was now resting upon the crown of her head. She poked him gently in the side. 

"That's because you're actually a good sort when you want to be, you know. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I won't even tell Tataru."

"Excellent. I should hate to have your lot think that perhaps I might _enjoy_ their company. Can you imagine how ghastly that would be?" 

"Making _friends?_ The absolute _horror_ of it all. Though I'm afraid you'll not be able to fool Alisaie or Tataru as long as you imagine. Or Y'shtola for that matter- she's rather discerning." Aurelia paused. "Also, she is quite often more than slightly terrifying."

"I shall take that as a friendly warning."

At his quiet scoff, she allowed herself a brief chuckle before her own smile faded somewhat.

"You really didn't have to do this, you know-"

"That's three times you've attempted to apologize. Don't. You're overthinking matters, as per usual," Nero said mildly. "Accept it in the spirit which it was intended- such is the purpose of this exchange, after all, so Garlond says. I did it because I wanted to do it, and that is reason enough."

She was going to ruin the moment if she said anything else, so she didn't. Instead she reached for the other hand that lay free in his lap. He let her lace his fingers through hers without comment, and when she squeezed he squeezed back. 

They said nothing else after that for a long time. They sat together in comfortable silence before the hearth fire watching the wind spit snow onto the frosty window by the huge tree, and Aurelia found herself wishing every Starlight could end so well.


	2. forehead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i forgot this was ishgard restoration patch week, in case y'all were wondering where i've been,
> 
> anyway have a scene! set during 4.5x. no specific spoilers, but reference to the events are made.

**ii. forehead**

The calm and the relative hush of the Temple Knights Hospitaliers' infirmary was, Nero Scaeva assumed, intended to grant a sense of peace to its inhabitants and their loved ones. It was a false sense of well-being in his opinion, and one that did nothing for his frayed nerves. 

Of all of it, the interminable waiting was the worst. Ever since he was small the concept of patience had ever been a learned trait: easily enough applied to a project with a set deadline, but considerably strained when he had no foreknowledge of an outcome. 

His tenth circling pace about the hall led him to peer out the great stone window only to see precisely what he had expected: a Coerthan blizzard that reminded him uncomfortably of home, gray upon gray upon white. Snow fell in a heavy blinding blanket from a sky like lead, and the chill that radiated from the window seemed to sink beneath his flesh to gnaw so deeply into his bones that the woolen Ironworks doublet and the heavy overcoat he wore proved useless against it. His body ached in a dull sort of way, still healing as he was from his injuries, but worry and adrenaline ran so high in him that he barely took notice. 

He ran his hands through his hair for the- how many times, in the past four bells? He'd lost count - and glanced at the shut door. No one had quit the room since he had arrived. That Elezen he remembered from the Alliance council had been there, the absurdly pretty Ishgardian lord with blue-black hair like a rook's feathers - he'd been speaking to a stooped man in a white coat in tones solemn and hushed, as though they stood in a cathedral vestibule before an effigy of their stone goddess.

The discussion had been all too brief. In a matter of moments, the chirurgeon hurried back inside and shut the door behind him with a click that seemed thunderous, and it left his taller companion suddenly aware of the Garlean's presence. Those sky-blue eyes bored into his own: a keen stare sharp with instant recognition and distrust for a brace of seconds before it was mitigated with a sort of wary understanding. 

It surprised and annoyed Nero, that moment of intense self-consciousness - he had felt so _small,_ and no matter how fleeting the impression, no matter that his own towering sense of pride had ruthlessly crushed it before it could break his resolve, the sensation lingered far past that one instant.

There was little way of knowing how much of his relationship with the eikon-slayer was actually common knowledge, but Ser Aymeric Something-or-other seemed to have been quite well aware of it. And yet anything the man might have had to say to him he had kept to himself. He had been the first to look away, only to quit the corridor entirely, and Nero had been left to his own devices with no company but stone walls and a stone sky and a silent curtain of white. 

It was maddening.

(It was torment.)

He placed his hands flat upon ancient granite and mortar and peered through the glass panes, grimacing at the numbing cold. The sensation transported him, for that one disorienting instant, a good twenty years into the past; for that fleeting moment he was his boyhood self once again, bored and impatient and waiting for the storm to subside. Frost rimed the panes like watery lace and his warm breath was a fog bank to shroud what little visibility remained, and through the falling snow, he could see the outline of the great bridge past the city gates. This, Nero knew, was the so-called Steps of Faith. Aurelia and her allies had defended this city from a host of dragons with - among other things - the barbaric siege weaponry that lined the massive rails and towers like iron sentinels. 

And _unlike_ the capitol, there was not a scrap of magitek to be found. 

The sight broke his momentary immersion. Restlessness reclaimed him once more and on its heels, the urge to save himself gave rise to every pernicious impulse he had like some subtle poison. _I do have the option still to simply leave,_ he thought. Fingertips scraped against stone, digging into the age-worn mortar. _Let them sort matters out with the Empire themselves. Be free from this web of absurd obligations._

But a much smaller part of himself, something soft and fragile and still growing, wasn't having it. 

_You could,_ it said, _but you won't. You already made a promise to Garlond. Hells, to_ her. _No more running._

If he walked out that door simply because his resolve was tested then he might as well take a blade to his throat. That act would be the end of the life he had tenuously begun to build here. He would once more be the ruthless and self-serving creature whose aetherometer he had flung into the depths of the Syrcus trench two years ago, the one whom he had sworn to bury as the morning's first light speared across one of Silvertear's rare clear skies. A new day.

Nero knew he was not a nice man, nor was he a good one. But he was a man who always kept his word. 

At the opposite end of the hallway, the sounds of a turning tumbler and creaking hinges cut into his self-imposed reverie. More out of deeply ingrained observational habit than aught else, Nero glanced over one shoulder from his position at the north-facing window to see the chirurgeon in his whites emerge from the infirmary. The man paid him no mind, but instead crossed the hall to the stairwell entrance and down without looking back; the receding scrape of footsteps followed the healer's descent. 

On its heels silence reigned once more, settling back into its place like snow covering freshly made tracks. His eyes flickered towards the door which stood ever so slightly ajar; the seam of light betwixt frame and plank was brighter than it should have been. He waited one heartbeat, two, then three, and heard nothing. No shouts, no clatter of sollerets, not even overheard conversations echoing within the tunnel-like keep walls. 

He would suffer no more internal debate whether or not he should remain where he was and continue his vigil. His feet were already moving.

Nero was absolutely certain that the click of the falling latch as the door swung shut at his back would alert _someone_ to his presence, but he passed the threshold unmolested and entered the room. Within as without, it was almost ominously quiet, albeit this was a much smaller space. A fire crackled within a great stone hearth to ward off the chill from the windows, their glass panes likewise rendered all but opaque by ice and frost. Redolent within the room, reminding him of its grim purpose: the herbal reek of elixirs, and laced beneath like some offensive counterpoint was the astringent and sterile prickle of some sort of Eorzean antiseptic. His stomach turned in a slow and alarming drop but its contents remained in place. 

A held breath escaped his lips with a soft chuff, and he turned his focus towards the sole bed in the room and its occupant. 

Muted gold spilled in rivers over a starched and lumpy pillow, dark lashes at rest against high cheekbones in a heart-shaped face suffused with a deathly pallor. She wore a simple robe that put him uncomfortably in mind of his long convalescence in the Reach, and the field dressings that peeked from beneath the linen were stained with old blood. Her lips were slack and slightly parted, and she did not stir at his approach. Were it not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, small sips of air that were barely visible and too quiet to hear, he might have feared the worst.

There was a low-slung stool at her bedside. He drew it close and sat, taking a few moments to arrange his limbs. It was an awkward and graceless business; the chair had clearly been built with the compact and sturdy frame of a Midlander in mind, not a tall and lanky Garlean man. He had to brace his feet against the floor to seat himself without discomfort, and it brought back a distinct memory of their reconciliation that night after her sound defeat at Zenos' hands. That had been dire enough. This was somehow worse.

"We really must stop meeting like this, hero," he said aloud, quite nearly startling himself.

He peered at her form once more, rendered nearly ethereal by the soft light from the hearth. Her right hand lay folded gently over her waist, the left upon the mattress at her side. With as much care as if he were handling one of his ancient tomestones, Nero took her hand. His fingers were slow and stiff from the cold - another memory of Ilsabard he hadn't missed - and he realized he hadn't taken any particular notice of his chill until he had curled the aching digits into the softness of her palm. Perhaps it was his imagination running wild and little else, but he fancied a gentle and quiet warmth sinking into his frigid skin. It was a small balm upon his inner turmoil, but a balm all the same. 

"I meant to tell you before all of this happened," he said, his voice calm and even and conversational, "but I've made arrangements with Miss Jaye to contract with the Ironworks on a more permanent basis. My first month's wages will go to pay the remainder of my debt to the House of Splendors. I had thought that it might please you."

No answer. He had hardly expected one, but he had also not anticipated how difficult it would be to speak to what was essentially an empty room, and the way she simply laid there, senseless and unmoving, made his skin crawl. The eikon-slayer's strength was a seeming constant, something those who knew her or even knew _of_ her simply accepted in stride, puissance quite often taken for granted.

But it went well beyond mere martial prowess. She was such a reliable and stable presence, and a positive force in the lives of so many, that even Nero found it barely possible now to imagine a world without her. Finding oneself confronted with the reality that she was a woman as mortal as any other beneath it all was-

Sobering. And for reasons he preferred not to examine too closely, he found it more than a little terrifying, as well. 

"That new wall of yours out in the Steppe will require regular maintenance, as I've no doubt you're aware. I'm to accompany Garlond and his team in the next fortnight to help oversee the process," he continued. "I'm told those Allagan ruins you found are nearby, and I should very much like to see them myself." 

Wind wailed around stone, and ice smacked against glass, and he talked. Her hand lay limp and warm in his careful grasp, and he recounted one of his own adventures in the same way she'd done for him while he was bedridden in the Reach. He watched her composed and pallid face as he spoke and remembered all those unending days of recovery in which she or Garlond had come to visit him, to keep him entertained, to help him with the most basic of tasks. At the time it had been acutely embarrassing but their presence had been vital. Thinking about it from this new perspective, those acts held a meaning they simply hadn't had for him before.

When he heard footsteps ascending the keep steps, Nero knew his time was up. The knights would likely clear him out and give orders to bar him from the infirmary indefinitely if they caught him, and that would be highly inconvenient. 

He leaned forward, smoothed her sweat-dampened fringe away from her brow, and pressed his lips briefly against it before righting himself again. For that brief moment before it was concealed once more by her hair, the curve of her third eye - illumined as it was by the hearth-light - seemed to shimmer like a pearl, iridescent and precious. 

"I'll be back tomorrow," Nero murmured. He hated having to ask Garlond to intervene on his behalf simply to visit an indisposed friend, but the man was as well respected in Ishgard as she was and he was not too proud to make that small concession on her behalf. "And I will bring some of your personal effects along with me. That robe they've put you in is absolutely hideous and I imagine it's about as comfortable as that slab of rock they call a bed."

_What if she doesn't awaken? If she remains comatose, like the others?_

He cleared his throat, trying to clear the hot and stifling tightness that lingered at the thought. That creeping feeling of impotence left him feeling uneasy and frustrated. All the engineering skills he could bring to bear, all the intellect he so greatly prized, were useless here, as much as it pained him to acknowledge the fact. But there was little else to be done. He had to take it on some faith that whatever it was that had happened to her, she would prevail against it as she prevailed against most things.

For a man who considered himself intensely rational, who believed only in those things he could provably see and hear, that felt like waiting on a miracle. But it was pointless to worry over matters beyond his control. She would come back to them in due time, he was certain. And while she had need of it, Nero would offer what assistance was within his means to give, as ever. 

The small hand that he clasped, he folded over the other yet draped over her slim waist. She lay silent and still, features perfectly preserved: the picture of a saint in gentle repose. It was the sight he took with him upon his departure. And as the door clicked shut at his back, the Warrior of Light's unnatural slumber continued apace.


	3. crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's rough and in media res, but imma yeet this prompt response so i stop overthinking it
> 
> anyway, smut ahoy,

**iii. crown**

The match had ended precisely as Nero had projected it would: with his defeat, but this time he felt a certain sort of sanguinity in acknowledging it.

He tilted his head back to rest upon the ground with a deliberate languor. His gaze lingered upon dewy skin and the soft rosy flush along her collarbone, traced the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, and settled upon the spot along the column of her neck where a tiny pulse fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird. 

With a supreme effort, he wrenched his focus away from the sight and set himself to locating his weapon. It didn’t take much time: the gunblade lay well out of his reach, her disarming parry having sent it spinning into the overgrowth and nearly over the lip of the bridge into the water below. A rueful grin curved his lips. 

"Once more, eikon-slayer, you emerge victorious." The arid warmth of mid-morning in the Peaks had left his mouth dry and his voice rasped for want of water. "Not that I had expected otherwise, of course." 

Aurelia knew he was practicing a degree of restraint; Nero knew full well how to hold his own in hand-to-hand combat- but rather than attempt to break or reverse her clinch he seemed content to simply wait her out. Beneath the darkened lenses of his polarized shades, pale periwinkle eyes flickered from her face to his weapon and back again, but his arms remained within her grasp, pinned flush against the wind-weathered mosaic by his elbows. 

Something levin curled in her stomach that could have been uneasiness or excitement. 

"Another round, then? Best of three?" His grin turned sly and speculative as the seconds ticked past. "Did you perhaps have some _other_ design upon me? I _am_ at your mercy, af-"

She kissed him without preamble and swallowed his words. The engineer’s mouth was soft, and damp, and had gone slack with his surprise; she tasted the tang of salt and the faint bitterness of his coffee. Despite the juniper scent of aftershave she still felt the rasp of stubble against her own smooth skin, and it sent a small tremor down her spine unbidden, one that wracked her limbs and prickled gooseflesh along her arms. 

His smile spread wide beneath the press of her lips, beatific and self-satisfied. Aurelia righted herself.

“That would be telling, Scaeva,” she pinched the bridge of his sunglasses between index finger and thumb and plucked the accessory from his face, “and I know by your own words how dearly you prize the thrill of _discovery_.”

Aurelia folded the frames shut and set them upon the cobbles. He had barely a moment to wince at the sun’s blinding glare before her shadow loomed over him once more, sunlit hair spilling over her shoulders like a golden canopy.

His brows furrowed, cleared, then raised in a silent question: one that she answered with another kiss, and another, and another, until they began to run together like the trickle of a creekbed feeding into a great river. Left to their own devices, his hands settled upon her legs and tracked a slow and idle path from knee to thigh, slipping just under the hemline of her pantalettes. His palms slid up and up, capturing a softer country, pausing at the juncture of hip and thigh to tease at the border of her smalls, then-

She caught his wrists in silent warning. 

Instantly those long fingers retreated to fan along her flanks instead, thumbs pressing with deliberate care into the meat of her upper thighs. The move was a calculated one, she knew: intended to hold her attention rather than to restrain, and it was more effective than Aurelia would have dared admit. Every ilm of her focus now lay upon the warmth of his hands on her legs, and she knew full well the flush in her cheeks no longer came from the mid-morning sun. 

“I asked you here to _spar_ , ser,” she breathed, swallowing past sudden dryness. 

“And I daresay we are _still_ sparring. How very unlike you,” kiss-bruised lips brushed against her own, tracing them with ragged inhalations and the shape of his words, “not to stay your course.”

That insolent little sidewise tilt to his mouth had not wavered, but she sensed little of its customary sharpness. Self-restraint, she realized, beneath the veneer of confident swagger. He was waiting, wanted only for her consent to act upon the tension that seemed to close the bare ilms of space between them.

It was all the impetus she needed. She curled her palm about the nape of his neck like a half-open lily, winnowed her fingers through the pale blond curls there, and lay her claim. 

A guttural growl welled from the depths of her opponent’s chest and his hands flexed in reaction, fingertips digging into her thighs. One hand strayed upwards to gather a fistful of her linen camise as she kissed him, and his palm slid beneath the ruched fabric to explore the slope of her exposed back until it reached the small clasp that bound her undergarment in place. The catch in her throat was his only warning before her grip tightened in his hair hard enough to pull in earnest, and the rumble from the pinned tiger beneath her weight transfigured itself into a soft groan that she felt as much as heard.  
  
On its heels came another surge of his hips. There was nothing innocent about the slow and forceful upwards thrust; it allowed her to feel _precisely_ what effect she had had upon him.  
  
She arched forward in a slow roll to draw out the delicious spark that throbbed into her veins from that point of contact, canting her hips forward and down to slot against him and _grind;_ she could feel him against her, swelling hot and rigid as they moved together, and upon sheer instinct her body clenched around emptiness in its base attempt to offset that nagging ache, seeking in vain the friction that would ease and fan the flames at the same time. Pleasure seared pathways up and out into her limbs and her torso and tore an involuntary whimper from her, a sound muffled by the mouth which claimed hers.   
  
“Aurelia,” he groaned, the sound of it helpless and raw. “I can’t-”

She didn’t know what he was pleading for or why but felt that same desperate need deep in her bones all the same. Every ilm of her skin seemed to prickle with the selfsame unrelieved tension that threaded itself through his words, a field of electric instability that needed touch to ground them both. So thinking, she braced her elbows against the hard and dusty stones and rocked against him again and again, relishing the sounds he made and the sounds she gave him in return.  
  
It had not escaped her notice that they lay mere fulms away from a temple. The act of worshiping the earthly body of one's lover at the feet of a structure once built to house the ineffable-- there was something both thrilling and strangely sacrilegious about it. Even to a woman who did not believe in gods.

 _Were he in my position right now, I daresay the Destroyer would understand._  
  
The distant observation carried with it a sort of hysterical good humor. She laughed, or thought she did, but could never be sure in the moment. The heartbeat in her ears drowned out all other distractions, save that tight coil that had saddled itself low in her belly and built with each rocking wave. Sweat rolled down her temples and arms and back and wet her hair and she could taste it upon her tongue and his, and it didn’t matter because all of her focus was upon the heat that burned as bright as a falling comet, winding tight and tighter still and searing through their thin layers of clothing like a brand. Feeling him everywhere, except where she wanted him most--

\--and without warning the relentless curl of pressure snapped, a stripped gear in a machine that was at last overtaxed and gods above and below the _relief_ it brought--

Every muscle in her body seemed to lock as she shuddered on and around him, even her voice lost to climax. The cry she might otherwise have made was a rasped whisper, the name on her lips mouthed rather than spoken. She buried her face in the space betwixt his jaw and shoulder and was so lost in that blissful haze, she barely noticed the hands on her back that clenched fistfuls of her shirt. Nor did she mark the cracked moan that fell from his lips when he arched his back and snapped his hips upwards one last time, the thrust leveraging enough force to bruise her parted thighs. 

Like the cloudbank of an afternoon thunderstorm, the ferocity of their coupling passed as swiftly as it had overtaken them. In a brace of moments he had all but collapsed beneath her weight, as boneless and exhausted as she. For a time the pair lay entwined, the bemused silence between them punctuated by the wet sounds of openmouthed breathing as each attempted to regain control over their most basic faculties. 

“Seven hells,” Aurelia groaned. She tried to roll herself onto the stones but found herself unable to move; her arms and legs felt like overcooked noodles. “That-”

“What?”

“...I don’t know which of us actually won."

It was all she could think to say, and it earned a weak chuckle from the man beneath her.

“Well,” he managed at last. Her ear rested against his chest and the sound of his heart pounding within its confines was as thunderous as a galley drum. “...Perhaps... we can call it a draw.”

“Thought you wanted best of three, Scaeva.” He smelled like dust and sweat just like she did, but something of his coffee and juniper scents lingered beneath them. She inhaled those familiar comforts, eyes screwed shut against the sun’s glare as her pulse began to slow once again. “Backing down from your own challenge?”

“And I would be more than happy to oblige you with a rematch, Warrior mine,” the roughened fingers on her back traced idle shapes over the damp surface of her skin where the band of her brassiere had been, “but I suspect I’ve just discovered a rather pressing need to change my smalls before I make an attempt at any other _strenuous physical activity_ for the nonce.”

Aurelia laughed. 

"Let’s postpone it, then, shall we? I need to bathe, myself." She was already beginning to ache, but that soreness itself was pleasant in its own way, rendered soft and sepia through afterglow. A good feeling. "Although I think right now I could do with a good nap.”

The kiss he laid against the crown of her head was softer than she had expected and on the razor’s edge of tender. It was but a brief touch which he quickly replaced with the much bristlier weight of his cheek, but one she felt all the same. The sensation seemed to linger even as he withdrew, extricated himself with trembling arms, and gently rolled her onto her back to lie flat against the sun-kissed earth.  
  
"Best idea you've had all morning," he said, and there was a second kiss, this one upon her hairline.   
  
She was filthy, drained, and caked in what felt like buckets of sweat. But if someone - perhaps the god upon whose ruined temple steps they lay - had asked her what else she might require to feel content, she would have been hard-pressed to give an answer. The smile that curved her lips was the most genuine she’d made in what felt like ages. 

If he said anything else after that, Aurelia was not aware of it. She was already drifting into dreams.


	4. nose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i did consider more spice, but i really just wanted to write something sweet and cute and kind of funny for valentione's day (and i might still write the spice later, huehue), so this is the spiritual sequel to apilado, which was last year's valentione's day fic. i hope you enjoy!

**iv. nose**

Perhaps the most self-evident observation that could be made of the small house nestled in its small copse in the Shroud upon first entry was that its adventuring inhabitant -- or inhabitants -- were either avid readers or wished any potential guests they might have to believe that was the case. The sitting-room with its tall shelves of books was immediately visible from the front entry, and one might be forgiven for assuming there was no possible way every tome on its shelves had been read.

In point of fact, the Warrior of Light _was_ an avid reader when the subject fascinated her. However, this particular book was not the sort that normally caught her eye. She had only attempted to peruse its contents once, and that was yesterday when she had decided to outline today’s plan of attack. Last year, Nero had treated her to dinner - among other things - and she had completely forgotten the occasion. 

Well, she was _not_ going to be caught unawares by the holiday this year. Today was Valentione’s Day and by some miracle, confluence of the fates, or what-have-you, she had managed to capture a small handful of days to herself in order to prepare. The flower arrangements were simplicity itself; those were already set on the table along with the gift she’d commissioned, wrapped neatly in its box- part of his gift, anyroad- and now all she had to do was see to the dinner. 

And the chocolates. 

...Aurelia wasn’t nearly as sure about the chocolates. 

Making them herself had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time, but she was starting to regret it. Warrior of Light or not, she really wasn’t what one would call the most accomplished culinarian, unlike Nero, who seemed to take the same meticulous approach to cooking as he did to his research and his engineering. He had grown up in a poor farming village, had learned how to make food alongside the grandmother who had raised him in order to help feed his family. 

Whereas Aurelia had- well. As the daughter of a wealthy landed gentleman - even if he was a younger son - her upbringing had been very different. Her lady-lessons had not included such things; the husband her family selected for her would have hired a cook and a housekeeper in the interest of keeping up appearances. And as a child, she had wanted to climb trees and grow flowers and be a scholar, the seven hells take sweating over a stove or bending over a distaff until her fingers ached.

Too late for regrets now, she supposed. 

Aurelia squinted doubtfully at the illustrated page, then back to the bubbling mess in the pot. It all felt rather _simple_ , she thought. She’d never made truffles before, true, but only _four_ ingredients? Surely she could do better than that. Chocolates with no embellishments seemed so-

“Well,” she muttered, “perhaps it’s fine if it’s a _little_ uninspired.” 

Though on second thought, watching the cocoa melt down in the saucepan: perhaps some brandy wouldn’t hurt? Culinarians put spirits in sweets and other things all the time, and she remembered some treats she’d had in the Crystarium with Lakeland brandywine in them that had been absolutely amazing _._

With that decision made, she turned to make her way down the stairs towards her wine cellar, but the moment she set foot on the stairs, her linkpearl sounded off. Frowning faintly, she tapped the small device alongside the shell of her ear. 

“Yes?”

“Oh, Relia!” Tataru’s voice, perhaps just a touch too bright, chirped across the aetheric link. “So sorry to trouble you! I know you asked for no calls unless it was an emergency.”

“So I did. Is aught amiss?” She glanced over one shoulder as she made her way down the stairs towards the cellar door, too impatient and worried about the state of her cooking chocolate to pay much attention.

“Oh, not at all! This isn’t a work call, I promise. It’s just, er…”

Aurelia knew the sound of Tataru’s ‘I’m about to ask you for a favor’ voice when she heard it. “Go on.” 

“I was going through my measurement book for sewing patterns - for no reason whatsoever! - and realized I was missing one of yours. The, um, the bust.”

Her brows furrowed once more, this time in mild disbelief. 

“...The bust.”

“Yes.”

“ _Just_ the bust size is missing. Somehow.” Damn, where _had_ she put that cognac?

“Yes.”

 _Right_. _Well, you're clearly up to something, old friend._

She supposed she could grill Tataru for the details of whatever scheme she’d hatched, but attempting to pick apart the reasoning behind the Lalafell’s choice to call her with an extremely transparent lie would be better done while she was not preoccupied. In the meantime Aurelia didn’t see any harm in giving her a couple of measurements - she had, after all, entrusted her with them once before. 

With this reasoning in mind, she rattled off the numbers as best she could remember them while squinting at the labeled bottles within the dimly lit rack. After a few moments of rummaging, she found what she was looking for just as Tataru piped, “I’ve got it. Thanks, Relia!” 

“You’re welco-”

The quick chime of a severed connection left her in relative peace and quiet once more. Which was strange in itself, because usually when Tataru was making a social call Aurelia could expect to be on the hook for a good half-bell of her time. 

But it was a question she could ask herself later. Right now she had chocolates to make. 

She trotted happily up the stairs, bottle in one victorious hand… only to see an alarming amount of smoke billowing from the stovetop. 

“Oh swiving _Twelve-_ ” She made haste to the range and switched it off, then snatched one of the mitts from the nearby wall mount to wave back the smoke. Most of the pan’s contents appeared salvageable, thankfully, but it didn’t seem like enough. She wanted to make another batch, but if she didn’t have the extra ingredients-

_Wait. I can just melt down some of the chocolate chips I saw in that bag in the dry pantry, can’t I? And just add the brandy in while it’s melting?_

Aurelia turned towards the shelves of dry goods, somewhat cheered by the thought that she could spare herself a trip to the markets, at the very least. The bag was at the back of the very top shelf and she had to stretch a considerable bit to reach it, but she managed to pull it down without spilling any of its contents. 

She set aside the saucepan with its half-scorched contents, reached under the counter for a fresh pan, and poured in the chocolate, then paused. She probably didn’t need the cocoa butter if all she was doing was melting pre-made chips-- she’d have to pour in the cream while it was still hot but maybe that was fine, maybe it would even help melt the chocolate faster. Then “a splash of spirits,” whatever that meant. To taste, perhaps?

_Hmm. Speaking of taste, which patisserie was it back in the capital that used to put chilies in their truffles...?_

Her good mood returned as she acted upon that stray impulse; she plucked one of the chilies from its bag and started cutting into fine pieces to add to the new mix. Of course, she _might_ be getting a touch ahead of herself, but surely it would turn out alright in the end. These were all flavors she knew would work in chocolates so a little deviation here and there wouldn’t hurt.

The longcase chronometer in the parlor struck four just as she was stirring the pieces into the half-melted lumps. 

_Hells_. She still had to put the noodles on to cook and she hadn’t even started the sauce yet. If she wanted everything to be ready in order to spring her surprise, she’d have to work fast.

That was all right. She’d worked under far worse conditions before.

With a determined nod, Aurelia tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear, turned up the heat on the cream until it began to bubble, and uncorked the cognac bottle.

~*~

Nero was not sure exactly what he should have expected when he opened the cottage door, but the smell of burnt sugar and the sight of a darkened kitchen was concerning, to say the least. 

He set the box that had been in his hands upon the nearby table (where, he noted, there was a wrapped box and a vase of fresh-cut flowers she had likely arranged herself) and ventured into the parlor. He found Aurelia sitting in one corner of the sofa, curled in a tight ball with her arms wrapped about her legs and her face buried in her knees. “Before you say anything,” she said, her voice muffled, “don’t.”

His brows arched. 

“That bad, is it?”

“You have to ask? You can surely smell it for yourself.”

“I can.” Though he knew it was unwise, he cracked a grin. “...Did you perchance fight an eikon in the kitchen? Is that my surprise?” 

Nero received precisely the answer he had expected for _that_ particular bit of cheek: a sound swat to the face with one of the sofa pillows. He ouched as she drew her hand back and made an exaggerated face at her, but Aurelia didn’t take the bait. Instead she made a breathy, angry little _hmph!_ , the sound muffled against her thighs, and tried to angle herself away from his perusal to face the apple-green brocade which covered the sofa’s frame. 

“Sweetling-”

“Don’t talk to me,” she huffed, “I’m _angry_.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I’ve made a mess of everything.”

“I don’t see how- well yes, alright, I suppose the kitchen is a bit of a disaster. But it’s naught that can’t be salvaged.” He sat down next to her and smelled chocolate and… something alcoholic. “What happened? You look absolutely gutted.” 

Finally she lifted her chin to look at him. Her blue eyes were very dark and very wide and shimmered with suspicious wetness.

"I was going to make dinner for you," she groaned. "I had flowers and a present and I was trying to make-”

“Chocolates.” Aurelia’s face was hard to see in the darkness but he could see her chin bob. “I take it something went awry.”

“A great lot of somethings. And then I was so busy trying to fix what had gone wrong that I burned dinner and-”

“Hush. Come here.” Reluctantly she let him untangle her from her sulk and pull her into his lap, like a tired kitten. “You know I appreciate the gesture, but it wasn't necessary.”

“Yes, it was!"

"How so?"

"I completely forgot last year. You went to all that trouble and I forgot. So I wanted to make it up to you. I thought if I could make it as special as possible-.... never mind.” Aurelia lifted her hands and stared at her chocolate-stained fingers with a disconsolate sigh. “...I’ll clean up the kitchen as soon as I’ve my wits about me.”

“You will do no such thing.” Nero kissed her on the nose, then gave it a tiny tap with his index finger. “You are going to go downstairs and run yourself a bath while _I_ clean the kitchen- once I’ve dialed Mistress Tataru and thanked her for her very timely assistance, that is.”

 _So_ that _was what that call was about!_ Seven hells, what had Tataru told him? The look on his face was that of a man hiding an extremely exciting secret, and she didn’t know whether to be apprehensive or curious.

Cautiously, she chose the latter. 

“Dare I ask?”

“You can ask all you like,” he grinned, that smile that was so often in turns endearing and infuriating. “Whether you’ll get an answer before I wish to give it remains to be seen.”

Aurelia sighed but felt her lips curve in a smile, some of her humor returning. “Surely cleaning the house was not on your docket for the evening.”

“Of course it wasn’t- but there's really only been a slight change of plans. Once you've had a chance to clean up, you're going to open that gift, and then I’m going to show you how to make proper chocolate-- and how to put it to far more _interesting_ uses than homemade truffles.” Her cheeks felt ablaze with color, and as she watched a mischievous curl crept slowly into his smile. “One good turn deserves another, after all.” 

“Is this where I say ‘happy Valentione’s Day’ or somesuch?”

His lips brushed her cheek.

“It's a start,” he said. "And if it hasn't been happy thus far, I am _quite_ confident I can make it so."

**Author's Note:**

> *- nero is 34 according to encyclopedia eorzea, however i do not use the time bubble. ARR to shadowbringers in my fics spans about 2-3 years.
> 
> if you'd like to meet like-minded people who love reading and/or writing stories about their adventures in hydaelyn, please feel free to come check out our [book club discord](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)! note: thirst for one (1) rat man optional.


End file.
